


live like an outlaw

by misandrywitch



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: essentially concurrent to kitty cat caper, not a happy fic., post final resting place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:55:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: Maybe Peter should have seen that one coming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this right after 'juno steel and the kitty cat caper pt.1' dropped because it answered my question of 'what is juno up to six months after final resting place' which naturally made me start dwelling on what peter is doing with himself. 
> 
> kind of similar, kind of not. fewer kitty cats. probably more murder and definitely more safe cracking. 
> 
> title is from 'night light' by the mountain goats:  
> Dream of maybe waking up someday  
> And wanting you less than I do  
> This is a dream though  
> It's never gonna come true
> 
> junosteeled.tumblr.com - i'm conquering my fears of writing about the emotional fallout of 'final resting place' please come say hi there or on twit if you liked it! x  
> 

When he was younger, his favorite part of constructing a new false identity was the details of it. Forming a whole new person from nothing, like the doctor in that ancient story from earth who brings the man to life from a dead body and his own will. Peter ate up stories, when he was younger. Probably because he had little else to lean on.

And it showed. 

"This is a great story," Mag said once, reading over Peter's suggestions as he'd examine their newly minted fake IDs. "But -- kid -- what are the odds that I would run into my ex-wife who I still hold a beleagered candle for at the moment that she needs me most, just in time to save her son that I then take in as my own?"

"Not very high," Peter admitted, feeling embarrassed. "But it's a nice idea." 

Mag had put his hand on Peter's shoulder. When Peter tried to remember his father sometimes he'd have hazy thoughts of a tall man, a soft voice. More often though he thought of Mag, those huge intense eyes and his laugh and his hand on Peter's shoulder like an anchor. 

"Not gonna argue with you there Pete," he said. "But our lives don't work out that way. Would be nicer if they did but they don't."

Peter had remembered that lesson. The irregular details of people's lives, the things that never get concluded and that remain, ugly and uncomfortable -- that's what makes them real. Even when you don't know those details you can feel them in people. The texture of their lives. 

Realistically, it means that Peter probably should have realized the holes in his own false narrative. Brave, dead father. Long lost kid. Ludicrous, really. But it's easier to spot in other people. 

Practically, it simply means he's good at sliding into narratives that don't belong to him. He's lived that way all his life. 

Still, it's a habit -- the idle need to examine things as they happen especially when they go wrong. 

He doesn't know exactly what to make of what happened on Mars. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, it's a story about romance. A romance that could have been. Other times, it's a story about loss and how to emerge from it. Or even -- and this makes him laugh -- a morality tale about trying to do the right thing even when it seems impossible.

If he's being honest with himself, though, it's a story about pushing your luck.

That's something Peter Nureyev knows a lot about. 

 

 

 

The city of Iax, on the planet Epoch, third of six habitable rocks in the Trappist system. Late colonies with independence and governments only a few hundred years old. Iax is a middle-of-the-road metropolis even though it’s the biggest city on the planet, all winding streets and rising glass buildings meant to echo cities on Earth from a thousand years ago. Not the kind of city where the lights stay on late outside of downtown -- but trouble stirs anyway if you know where to find it.

It snows on Iax, sometimes for months. And it’s snowing now, just a little. It glitters on city streets and sidewalks, capturing the footprints of the few people walking around this time of night.

Night’s falling, dark and frosted. A nameless man hurries through the city, walking with a purpose, and nobody gives him any thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Right now, Peter likes it that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The people he’s meeting have a setup in the back office of a throwback 22nd century restaurant, all gimmicks and robotic waiters that take your order. It’s late enough -- or early enough -- that nobody is inside and the lights are off, though the front door is unlocked, so Peter is unnoticed when he goes in the front door.

There’s a young man, probably not a bodyguard based on the set of his jaw, waiting in the front of the office and he looks up when Peter opens the door.

“You Mister Ritter?” He asks, and Peter nods and extends a gloved hand. “I’m Tristan, or Tris I guess. Mister Decon’s hired me on for this too.”

“I thought this was a one man job,” Peter says sharply even as he shakes his hand. “I’m not interested in working with a partner.”

Tris frowns. He’s two or three years younger than Peter at a guess, dark hair in braids with a square-jawed clean-cut handsome cast to his face. That’s an advantage, a winsome face, and his handshake is tidy and confident so Peter considers him more carefully for a moment.

“Well,” Tris says, obviously aware Peter’s looking at him with scrutiny, “it’s more like a four man job, really, but Decon didn’t want to attract any more attention than necessary. I know the city, though. Have you ever been here before? It’s like a maze. So if you don’t want a partner I can be your guide, I guess.”

“Simply wasn’t expecting you,” Peter says, mollifying. “What’s he like? Your boss.”

Tris’s eyes flicker around the room, then he shrugs. “Smart. But kind of a bastard. Worth knowing but not fun knowing, if you know what I mean.”

“I can guess,” Peter says. “Four man job?”

“Complicated security system,” Tris says. “Not impossible, just convoluted. It’s an off-world bank company, I think that’s why. I’m not bad, myself, but I’m also not stupid. Had to tell Decon straight-up I couldn’t crack the thing on my own, which is why he wanted to hire you.”

“It is my area of expertise,” Peter says. Oryx Ritter is a safe cracker, from a substation orbiting Mercury.

“So I understand,” Tris says. “You came a long way, didn’t you? First time to the Trappist system?”

“I was looking for a little adventure.”

Tris opens his mouth to say something else but the comm on his wrist beeps. “Ah,” he says. “Guess he’s ready. Bit of an impatient bastard, for the record. I’ll drill you on your history later.”

He smiles, winsome, and Peter lets himself enjoy being grinned at like that. “I look forward to it,” he says, looking for a reaction, and even though Tris is turning to open a door he sees him flush and knows that he’s gotten it.

Mattias Decon has an overwhelming handshake that’s meant to be both jovial and intimidating. It might work, on someone else, and Peter plasters on a smile that indicates he’s impressed because that seems easiest.

“Ritter!” Decon says. “Damn glad you could make it! Your travels all in order I hope?” Deep voice, a head of shaggy greying hair, gold studs in one ear and a battered leather jacket on his back. He has pale eyes of an indeterminate color, shrewd and suspicious. They scan Peter’s face, his suit. Not detective’s eyes. Opportunist’s eyes.

He’s an old grifter. Peter knows his type.

“Perfectly acceptable,” Peter says, positioning himself as the opposite of -- voice clipped and tidy, accent neutral. He keeps his handshake short. “I landed in time to see the moons rise. An incredible sight.”

He lets his gaze drift around the room, back end of a loading dock with a table in one corner littered with beer bottles. Blueprints projected on one wall. There are three other people in the room, one man with a gun hovering near the door and two more people sitting at the table. It smells like heavy cigar smoke and booze and the exertion of planning. It’s a familiar smell, a consistent one. No matter where in the galaxy you go people sit in rooms like these and make plans like this.  

“Sure is,” Decon doesn’t strike Peter as the kind of man who spends any time looking at the scenery. “But you aren’t here to talk about Epoch’s tourism industry, Mister RItter. Come on in, take a seat and let’s get started.”

So Peter does. Tris shakes hands with the two people seated around the table -- he obviously knows them but doesn’t exchange much beyond pleasantries, no comfortable rapport. He might work with these people but he doesn’t like them much, or care to know them any better.

“It’s a privately owned bank?” Peter asks, once he’s seated and everyone else at the table has opened a beer. They all turn to look at him and he shrugs, nods toward the blueprints on the wall. The information he’d received hadn’t been specific about the building, just the safe.

“How’d you know that?” Tris asks.

“State-owned operation in this part of the galaxy wouldn’t invest in this kind of vault,” Peter says. “And they rely on timbination locks these days anyway, or government-wired electronic passcodes.”

“Yeah, this is a bit retro,” the woman with the cigar agrees.

“It’s a Northern Galactic Militia bank,” Decon is drinking whiskey from a heavy-bottomed glass and he grins over the edge of it.

“Stealing from the military, Decon?”

“War’s been over for years,” Decon says. “And I did my time in it, eh? They should pay me back.”

“No you didn’t,” the woman with the cigar says. “You ran smuggled goods to anyone with the creds to buy ‘em at double the price out to the Outer Rim. That doesn’t count.”

“Counts if your ship got shot at, which mine did.”

“What’s in the vault?” Peter says, bringing the subject back to the job.

“Ten million credits,” Decon says triumphantly. “Five mill for you, five for us. Not bad, huh?” He finishes with a nod, like he expects Peter to be impressed by the prospect of five million all to himself. It’s a little childish how delighted Peter gets by that, his reputation - even rumors - so far away from these people and their plan.

They have absolutely no idea who he is at all, no idea that the scope of some of the heists he’s pulled make their grand plan seem like an afternoon in the park, no clue what he’s capable of. Peter loves that.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Peter agrees, and everyone in the room grins. “It’s been a while since I’ve hit a bank but I hear it comes back to you. Like riding a hovercycle.”

“You have an impressive resume,” Tris says. Most of it fake, but not all of it. Peter shrugs, going for abashed. Oryx Ritter lets his work speak for itself. “We were real happy when we heard from you.”

A little bit of a whim, because Peter hasn’t sought out would-be bank robbers for work in years. It’s something he’d have done ten years ago to line his pockets fast - quick, dirty, without the finesse or challenge to make it appealing. Peter now would think of this kind of work as beneath him, not worth his skill or good for his ego.

But Peter now also let himself fall out of control and head-over-heels for maybe the galaxy’s worst person to fall head-over-heels for. Peter now let his ego, his optimism, that natural desire to hold on and to wonder while looking forward into a bright and hopeful what-if get the better of him.

It’s something, to prove to himself that he still can. No morals or scruples or taste in the way. Just the skill.

He knows it’s a little desperate, this desire to prove to himself that he hasn’t been changed in a way that he can’t undo. If there’s anything Peter excels at it’s changing - unravelling identity to be shed like the skin of a snake. And that’s what scares him. That something’s been done to him, out of his control. Something he can’t wash out no matter how far away he travels, no matter where he goes next.

“I’m happy to be here,” Peter says, and it’s all sincerity because that’s how Oryx Ritter plays things. No bullshit, few questions, meticulous hands on whatever safe you need cracked.

“I’d hope so,” Decon says. “You’re charging enough. It’s you and the kid -- I’m too old to run and gun anymore but I’ll keep an eye on you and drop their security cameras. Tris got a good eye and knows his way around security systems too. And he’s some muscle in a pinch which, no offense, you need. You can crack this thing, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Without dynamite?”

“You hired me, not a demolitions expert,” Peter says shortly. “If you’d like someone to blow something up I’d look elsewhere. If you need someone to open your safe without anybody realizing it’s been opened, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Got an ego on you,” Decon says dryly, and he looks over his glass in Peter’s direction again. Uncomfortable scrutiny, but Peter doesn’t blink.

“No, Mister Decon,” he says. “I have experience. Thank you for your time.” He stands and nods around the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter goes back to the middle-priced hotel he’s staying in, eats takeout from the container as lays out the black suit he’s going to wear tomorrow -- black gloves, black silk shirt. The city is far too quiet, snow falling outside muffling most noise, and the room is too large and too chilly. Strange how luxury sometimes doesn’t fit the way it should. He turns up the heat and feels guilty.

There are steps to preparation. Memorization, practice, panache. He reads and rereads floorplans, turns the plan over in his head a few times. It’s watery, a little suspicious. He thinks about reconsidering. He thinks about coming up with a better plan himself, but he’s tired.

Peter lays awake in the dark for a long time, and he thinks about what it would be like to not lay awake in the dark alone. It’s the kind of distant, dull ache that won’t be ignored; a splinter under the finger. A could-have-been.

Something he’d wanted, that he hadn’t even know he’d wanted. Juno’s hands, Juno’s hair, the curve of his shoulder. The catch in his voice. Everything that implied -- being known, being trusted. Things other people settle for, settling down, suddenly the only thing Peter can imagine, and he’s so lonely he can’t breathe.

It never bothered him before.

He asked the wrong question. And it’s too late now.

He falls asleep eventually, and in his dreams that goddamn bomb goes off over and over again, and nobody comes out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It isn’t the kind of job Peter takes these days. There had been an edge of desperation to the work he’d sought, in the first months and years after leaving Brahma. Sometimes he hadn’t had much of a choice, and sometimes he’d felt there was something much bigger to prove - to himself, to the universe, to Mag or the memory of him - that it was somehow worth it. The scope of the rest of his life, the fact that he was living it when the people he left behind weren’t.

There was something triumphant about steamrolling through jobs that should have been run with two people, or three. Something legendary about scraping by by the skin of his teeth and letting the story, or a version of it, spread.

But this just feels messy, questionably planned, and he isn’t as prepared as he should be. There have been a few of those, the last few months. He knows he’s sloppy, testing himself. Asking a question and letting himself answer it with his actions.

So when things start to go wrong, he isn’t really surprised.

They get into the building without a problem, and Tris is a deft hand at picking locks so Peter lets him show off a little. It’s transparent and kind of earnest, his grin when when tumblers turn over and the front door of the bank glides open. No security alarm greets them, so Peter slides through the door and closes it gently behind them.

Shadowy front lobby. The light from the street is muted by the cold night air, the beginnings of snow. Something he’ll never adjust to -- snow, natural snow that falls when it wants. It doesn’t snow on Brahma and he remembers the first time he saw it -- on Earth, even, his first visit there. It’s all climate-controlled there now, too many years of sprawling industry warped the planet’s ability to cool itself down so they’ve adapted. Peter hadn’t cared. They’d landed in Moscow and he remembers running, no jacket and inappropriate shoes, through the white drifts, sticking to his trouser legs and clinging to his hair and his eyelashes, a moment of real joy --

He blinks. He’s staring around the lobby and Tris is looking at him, waiting for him to get on with it. What has him wandering backwards like this, in the middle of a job?

He wants to be angry, not sentimental.   

“All’s quiet,” he says, and Tris nods.

“Vault’s that way.”

“We have fifteen minutes to get in before the security team changes over,” Peter whispers as they walk. They both know this but he feels nervous for some reason, like something will go wrong. It helps to reiterate the details. The existence of a plan calms the nerves. Their footsteps are loud on nice marble floor, which is already making him jumpy. He breathes slowly through his nose.

“And notice their security cameras are looping old footage.”

“Exactly.”

They pass down another hallway, through a set of locked doors. And -- the vault, metal doors set into the wall, not as big as one might think. Peter sets down his case and flips it open, removes two dials and a laser cutter. He still can’t shake the rising thread of worry and he doesn’t know why but he pushes it down, places his gloved hands on the door to feel its surface.

“Hey,” Tris says, as he positions himself behind Peter with a clear view of the hallway behind them, just in case. “Fifteen minutes?”

“According to your boss, yes.” Peter presses his ear flat to the safe door. The metal is cold, and he can feel his own pulse in his neck -- the rising edge of excitement because of the work.

“If you do it in ten I’ll buy you a drink after this,” Tris says, and he smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter does it in eight and a half.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The money is exactly where it’s supposed to be. Ten million credits doesn’t look like much all stacked up nicely in newly printed bills, and Tris slides it into his bag and zips it closed. Peter shuts the vault door behind them as they leave, the building still dark and quiet and nobody the wiser.

So his hunch, that feeling of dread, was wrong. It’s nice to be proven wrong sometimes. Isn’t it? This was easy, and Peter doesn’t cross his fingers and toes as they turn back towards the entrance because he tries not to rely on superstition or faith, but he wants to.

That’s what he’s thinking when the alarm goes off. Red light, sudden noise. Peter can feel Tris jump about a foot in the air next to him.

Sometimes -- sometimes you aren’t so wrong after all.

There’s something misfiring, maybe, Peter thinks, condensed into a few crystalline seconds as he decides what to do next. Trust your gut, Pete, because it’s as smart as your head sometimes --

Something misfiring, something ruined. He missed something. He doesn’t do that. Things go wrong sometimes, because that’s life, but it’s as if he can’t make sense of things ever since they tumbled off of that train in the red Martian sand and saw the Ruby 7 peeling towards them in a cloud of dust. His own fear held at the edge of a knife, tight control, and Juno’s eyes as blue as oceans in the rising sun.

He wonders, as the alarms blare, if he’s been pulled too far out of orbit to ever return to the way he was, before Mars and the train and the mask. Before Juno. Some things slide into the very deep places of who we are and can’t be shaken.

Peter knows a thing or two about that. The bare bones of things.

Grains of sand become pearls. Planets adjust their course. And Peter also knows too much about leaving things behind.

He takes a deep breath.

“Tris,” he says, and Tris’s faced, illuminated in the red alarm light, turns towards him.

“Time to run?”

“Yes,” Peter says, and they do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They don’t get very far, despite their best efforts, because a four-person security detail is waiting for them in the bank lobby entrance and the real shape of this whole clusterfuck becomes very apparent.

“Well what do you know,” a woman, probably the leader based on the shape of her hat and the size of her gun, grins when they round and both stop. “One of old Decon’s tips paid off for once. Drop them, you know the drill.”

Tris removes his belt, where his gun is clipped, and lets it slide to the floor. Peter drops his knife. It isn’t the only knife on him but he’s not about to give that away.

“He set us up,” Tris says slowly, bitterness already creeping into his wide-eyed shock. Peter should have seen this coming. Should have trusted his gut -- not that that’s done him all that much good recently.

“He did,” the security captain says. “I’m guessing he’s involved in this somehow, but you’ll do for the moment. I’ve seen your face before.” She gestures with her gun at Tris, who scowls -- good for him, Peter thinks, but unnecessary. “Like to hit vaults, you and your team? Less impressive without them here though. And you I don’t recognize,” she looks over at Peter, “but I think I’ll enjoy getting to know you.”

“I really doubt that. See I’ve got what they call a chronically disagreeable personality.” Peter says and it comes out almost reflexively. He feels himself tense, shoulders tight, cocks his head and grins a little. It’s in the delivery, and the inflection, and the accent. Not his own, carefully neutral, or the one he used to have a long time ago, or even the short vowels and sharp consonants of Iax. Half-swallowed street slang partially disguised, all sardonic bite.

“I open my mouth, I piss people off,” Peter says, and he shrugs good-naturedly. “Especially when those people are underpaid rent-a-cops who are pretending like they’ve got any kind of real authority to make themselves feel bigger than they are. Really kicks in then.”

“That so?”

“Oh yeah,” Peter continues. “See, there’s this look that people who have been paid off get. Smug. He toss a couple thousand creds to you so you’ll look the other way when ten million walks on out of here and some more schmucks take the blame? Very heroic.”

Not his usual strategy -- play nice and wait for an opportunity. Not at all.

It’s exactly the kind of thing Juno would say.

And even worse, it works.

“I see what you mean,” the captain says sharply. “Go on. You, get him. I’ll take care of chuckles over here. He looks slippery to me. Not to mention the attitude problem.”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” Peter lets his smile turn into a grimace. One guard grabs Tris by the wrists, fumbles with some cuffs, and Peter can feel his eyes on him. He waits until the captain has passed behind him, makes a show of protesting her grip on his wrist for a second. “But you see,” he continues, “it only works if all of those things are true. And I’m not a schmuck.”

She slaps cuffs around one wrist, and then Peter slides the switchblade hidden up against his elbow down his sleeve, into his waiting hand, and slashes.

He slices her hand enough to scare her and she yells, lets him go just long enough for him to wriggle free and go for her gun. She isn’t entirely unprepared and doesn’t let it go despite the blood dripping down her arm so they tussle; she’s stronger by far but Peter is taller and more limber. He inches it up but then she yanks, pulling them both over sideways, and start to open her mouth to yell for the other guard.

At that moment there’s a crash and a scream, and Peter seizes the gun before he even turns to look. Tris smiles at him, over the body of the guard on the floor. He’d grabbed a metal office chair and slammed it over the guy’s head while everyone was distracted.

Potential, Peter thinks. And stunning upper body strength.

He lets that thought occupy half a second of his concentration before turning again, ducking quickly as the guard captain takes a swing in his direction. If she hits him she’ll be able to knock him down but Peter isn’t about to give her the chance.

She misses, he shoots. She falls, hard.

“It was on stun,” Peter says. Why is he worrying about that at all?

“Probably nicer than being hit with a chair,” Tris winces. “Decon -- “

“You said he was a bastard.”

“Underestimated how much of one. You really think he paid them off?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “I recognize his type. There’s at least one more guard in the building. Come on, let’s get -- “

Too late -- he sees movement from behind a desk across the room. Peter isn’t a great shot, and he can’t move his gun fast enough to get there before the guard fires so he takes the clearest option to him. He gets in the way.

The laser blast hits him in the shoulder and he drops, and Tris yells.

“Hands up!” The guard barks, and Tris must because there isn’t another shot.

Flat on the floor, Peter can tell the marble is fake -- linoleum made to look more expensive than it is. He keeps his eyes closed, his body limp, his breathing as slow as possible. His shoulder burns. Footsteps approach -- black boots, uniform wear. He can see them through his lashes. One step, two.

“You’re coming with me,” the guard says, “and I’ll haul your buddy out of here myself. Didn’t like the look of him at all.”

Three steps, four. He steps over Peter’s body.

“Bet you feel real smart now,” the guard says. He laughs, caught up in his own cleverness, and he doesn’t hear Peter rise silently back to his feet.

“Sure do,” Peter says, right in his ear, and the man’s startled enough to let out the beginnings of a scream before Peter slits his throat.

Blood splatters up and out, across his hands and arm and the floor. Up Tris’s shirt. This has officially devolved from a job-gone-wrong to a murder scene.

There are days, and there are _days._ Peter lets the body drop, heavy and wet. Maroon blood on off-white tiles, and that smell. Copper-bright. You never forget it. He takes a deep breath.

“How did you do that?” Tris asks, stunned. Peter flashes him a smile over his shoulder.

“Lots of practice,” he says, as he wipes his hands on the dead man’s jacket. “And I have my suit coats insulated to be bullet-proof.” He’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow but it’s better than being dead, or in jail.

“I’ve been doing this shit my whole life and I could never pull off something like that,” Tris says breathlessly.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You are keeping up, aren’t you?”

Tris flushes. “Where are you from, anyway?” He asks, and Peter’s hands go still for a moment.

“Somewhere far away from here,” he says firmly. “And a lot more complicated.”

Odd with context -- the things he and this young man probably have in common; no family, no choice but to make ends meet the only way they can. But Epoch elects its leaders. Epoch is far across the galaxy from where the war began and its citizens fought, sure, and died but life didn’t change very much.

These people’s lives aren’t political any more than the lives of anybody trying to survive with odds stacked against them are. On Brahma, everything is - action or passive acceptance, success or failure. The nights he spent hungry. The stories he told himself, and the ones told to him. Desperation is a circle - it only creates more, and desperate people are dangerous ones.

Why is he thinking so much about Brahma?

_Clear your mind, Peter - distraction and disaster begin with the same three letters._

“This is gonna be a shit show,” Tris says, and Peter snorts, back in the present.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“I have gloves on.”

“Good. Leave the body be. Get outside and wait for me in the alley.”

“Are you going to kill them?“ Tris asks, gesturing at the two other fallen bodies. “They saw my face. And yours. They could go to the cops.”

“They’ll have to go to the police,” Peter says, “but they’re going to conveniently forget what we looked like, or have been attacked from behind. How else would they explain why a security patrol vanished completely for fifteen minutes while two thieves just wandered in the front door?”

“I thought Decon’s plan was a little too confident.”

“I prefer to work on trust, not bribery. This is why. I’ll kill them if you think that’s best,” Peter says, and he feels guilty as soon as he says it because he thinks of what Juno would do.

Stay upright long enough to be the last man standing, if nobody else had to die.

He wants to be angry. Not sentimental. That gets you killed.

Peter wonders what Juno would say, to see this. Arterial blood all over his hands. He wonders if Juno’s miserable -- a question that answers itself, really. He wonders if Juno’s wondering what he’s doing, right now.

“No,” Tris says. “No, just leave them. Let’s go find Decon.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say,” Peter says, and it’s as close to honesty as he can manage right now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not for the first time he wonders what Juno saw, when he read his mind.

Peter has a guess, of course. He’d been thinking about it -- Mag and the day New Kinshasa almost fell -- as he’d listened to Juno alternate between quips and screams in the other room. The events of that day are like a talisman, worn-over and memorized and smooth with time. The opposite of a comfort but a habit, turning inward.

And there were commonalities, sure. He couldn’t help but compare the last time someone called him by his name.

But it’s a guess, and he doesn’t know for certain. Didn’t ask. It had seemed like crossing another line, asking for an interpretation of his own past. Some kind of value judgment. There are a hundred other days Juno could have seen, things Peter’s done that are far worse without context. But this is what he was afraid for Juno Steel to find -- Peter Nureyev’s baggage. Everything else is window dressing.

That’s the problem, of course. Facts are as mutable as memory is and there are days where Peter’s the villain in his own story as surely as there are days when morality means as much as the clothes he’s wearing. And he doesn’t know which parts Juno saw when he crawled inside his head.

Enough for him to follow Peter into bed, tension and tentative movements dropped in the act. And to not look away when Peter, lost in the tide of fear and sex and Juno’s shoulders framed against the city skyline outside the window as they were under his hands, had said something out loud he hadn’t said in as many years as his own name had gone unspoken.

Juno hadn’t realized what Peter’s name meant. But Peter could tell he’d realized this. Reflected in his own voice, rough and quiet. His lips on Peter’s forehead.

He can still feel that gesture, in his head. He doesn’t want to be sentimental.

Because it hadn’t been enough -- or it had been too much -- to stop Juno from dressing, from leaving the room and going who-knows-where to do who-knows-what to leave Peter to wake up alone. Enough for a night, but not any longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe Peter should have seen that one coming.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s exactly where they expected him to be, and he’s not expecting them. Decon nearly leaps out of his skin when Tris bangs the back door of the restaurant open and he makes to run, shouts a warning as two other people jump to his defense. Tris gets in a real solid right-hook and drops one of them, and Peter takes a less subtle approach; knife to the gut. Blood splatters and someone screams and Decon trips over a chair and falls backwards.

He’s getting up and turns to see Tris blocking the door, smiling with enough panache to make Peter proud. They stare at each other a second, and the old man must decide that it’s not going to go well for him to enter into a physical altercation because he turns to move in the other direction to be stopped by the end of Peter’s laser pistol.

“Hello,” Peter says, and grins as fiercely as he knows how, which is very. “Fancy running into you here!”

“I -- I’m so relieved,” Decon starts, voice cracking. “When you didn’t come back I assumed the worst and -- “

“Oh, knock it off,” Tris snaps from across the room. “I might have let you use me as a patsy but I’m not going to let you treat me like an idiot.”

“No idiot, kid! No idiot! I really -- “

“Shut up,” Tris repeats, “or the nice man with the gun will shut you up.”

Decon shuts up.

“It wasn’t even a good setup,” Peter says, and sighs. “It had potential for a moment but all it really did was piss us off and ruin a good pair of gloves. And Tris’s shirt. Look at it. Disgraceful.”

“I’ll get you a new shirt!” Decon says, pretty cool considering he’s staring down the barrel of a pistol. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you, you have to understand. I didn’t have a lot of choice, I -- “

“No, you meant to kill us. Sloppy or not, the intention was quite obvious and I don’t take threats well so you’ll simply have to go. Nice to meet you, I guess. See you in the next life.” Peter cocks the pistol, even though he has no intention of firing, and raises it.

“Wait, wait wait,” Decon says, suddenly desperate. “We can talk about this, right Mister Ritter? It wasn’t anything personal, nothing like that. Business is business -- but I’m sure we can work something out, right? Right Tris? You know it’s not personal, huh?”

He spreads his hands in front of him, open palms. Tris’s eyes move from Peter’s laser pistol to Decon’s face and Peter can sense his anger and also his discomfort. A nice young man, didn’t deserve to be dragged into something like this.

“Depends on what you plan to say,” Peter says, because he doesn’t want to give Tris a second to feel sorry for the old man. “Because frankly you’ve caused me an incredible deal of trouble and completely ruined both my day and my trip to the Trappist system.” He shrugs, nonchalant, making sure Decon can see how the movement moves the pistol.

“Sure, I get that,” Decon says frantically. “It was a real low thing to do, Mister Ritter, but it’s not worth killing over. Not worth dying. If I knew what kind of man you were -- “

Peter wonders exactly what kind of man Mattias Decon thinks he is, and he almost asks before he decides he doesn’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid. “How’s this?” He says, and he lets the silence drag on a minute too long. “You promised me half of what would come out of this job, didn’t you? Let’s bump that up to, say, all of it.”

“All of it?” Decon’s face is going red and splotchy, fear mixed with sudden anger. “Are you insane? That’s ten million credits! Other people are asking for that money, you -- “

He stops, when Peter lifts the pistol again. “Is ten million credits worth your life?” He asks. “Business is business, isn’t that what you said?”

“Fuck,” Decon spits. “Means I’m gonna have to get the fuck out of this system, first thing, don’t you get that? Some of us don’t just get to swan in to any old solar system they like and take off the next day. Fuck. Fine! Ten mil. It’s yours. I’ll transfer it once I get out of here.”

“Do it now,” Peter says. “From your comms. Go on. I’m in no hurry.”

Decon glares, but he touches the screen on his comms and hits a few buttons. Peter’s own temporary comms lights up with the notification.

“There you go,” Decon says bitterly. “Now let me get the hell out of here.”

“Thank you so much,” Peter says. “You misjudged something else though, other than my ability to escape your little trap.”

“What?” Decon asks, breathlessly.

It would be the end of it, Peter thinks. Nobody would miss him. Nobody would care. He’s not the kind of man to let this go. It would be tidier, neater, easier -- _first rule of thieving, Pete. Better to make a mess now than have one follow you home._ Thanks for the free advice. Maybe he’ll actually listen for once.

But -- this rises, unwanted and unbidden as Peter lets the arm holding the pistol lower and stares down at Decon’s face. An inconsequential little man, red-faced and desperate and cheating.

It’s Juno’s face. Juno’s brows, drawn down in disappointment or disbelief. Juno’s shoulders, pulled up and in. Juno’s voice, indignant. Peter can hear his protest so clearly, can imagine his own breezy response, the almost-argument they’d have and how he would promise to let it go this time, because it’s the right thing to do. Juno’s moral code, believing in right and wrong, his hope that Peter do the right thing --

Peter clears his throat. “You think you know what kind of man I am,” he says. “And you don’t.”

Who the fuck cares what Juno Steel thinks? Juno Steel isn’t here.

Peter raises his arm in one swift motion, and he shoots Decon in the head.

Acrid, laser burn smell. Smoke rises from the black, round space on the dead man’s forehead, and Peter feels sick.

“You shot him?” Tris manages. “You said you’d let him go.”

“I lied,” Peter says shortly. He lowers the pistol, then just drops it. They have to get out of here before law enforcement arrives. “The minute he got away he would have been after the both of us. He’s that kind of man.”

“That’s true,” Tris says. “Always was a bastard.”

Peter reaches over and puts his hand on Tris’s shoulder. He has nice shoulders. Strong. “Safety before sentimentality,” he says. “That’s the first rule of thieving.”

“I think there should be something about trust in there,” Tris looks back at the body, then up at Peter. “Bastard.”

“Probably,” Peter says. “The second rule is to not stand around talking while the police are on their way. Come on.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s an irony in the fact that Juno, who hadn’t trusted him as far as he could shove him and told him that enough times in a row that the hurt feels familiar, brought up an old buried lesson about trust.

Smart men are suppose to remember lessons the first time they’re taught them. Peter doesn’t have the luxury of carelessness and this was sloppy from beginning to end. He went into it without a plan, and it went south. _Always know what your next step is. First rule of_ \-- oh, fuck you.

Mag taught him a lot of lessons. Most of them stuck even when he hated them, even when he wished for anything else. He’d repeat them, whispered and delighted late at night by himself when he was young. Secrets that made him part of something much bigger, shared with him and him alone. And he’d repeat them, later, bitterly -- unable to get them out of his head and wishing the old man had some advice for what happens when the lessons you’ve learned run out.

He’d taught him that lesson first, Mag had. Like he’d taught Peter most things. The hard kind, the ones that you’re never supposed to forget. Maybe it means that Peter isn’t as smart as he thinks he is -- because Juno Steel got to teach it to him again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter ought to thank him for that. But he’s not that kind of man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’d keep your head down,” Peter advises Tris, who is watching him intently. He’s dazzled, and Peter feels a little bad about that because he’s not really in a dazzling mood. “For a few weeks. This will blow over. Don’t worry.”

“I take it you know that from experience,” Tris says. They’re in a bar all the way across town, a nice one. Peter, wearing a clean grey suit with the nice cufflinks, fits in. Tris isn’t doing too badly either, in Peter’s borrowed jacket. He’s got the ability to hold an expression on his square-jawed face that doesn’t have anything to do with what he’s thinking.

“I do,” Peter says, and he drains his drink.

“I was thinking about leaving Iax anyway,” Tris says as they leave. It’s chilly and Peter pulls the collar of his jacket up. “I’ve been considering it for a while. Seeing what else is out there. You make it look pretty easy.”

“I can’t say it always is,” Peter says honestly. He’s had more to drink than he should have but it was pleasant company. He’d made Tris laugh with a few stories from the two years he’d spent on a Rangian shuttlecraft, and Tris had offered a few wild ones of his own. “It’s been a long time since I’ve stayed in one place.”

“You ever think about it?”

“No,” Peter lies. At night he dreams about Brahma; the wide streets lined with flowers and the forests outside the city so easy to get lost in, the smells from the midnight markets and the music, the smells from the ozone-drenched laser fire and the silence that would always follow.

At night, he dreams about Hyperion City.

“So,” Tris shifts on the pavement. Peter’s jacket is too narrow on him so his wrists stick out from the cuffs, which is vulnerable and a little sweet. “Where are you going next?”

“I haven’t decided,” Peter says, which is true. His breath steams a little in the cold air, alcohol-heavy. “As far as five million credits will take me.”

“That’s pretty far,” Tris says. “You could also get into a lot of trouble here, with five million credits.”

“You can figure that out for yourself,” Peter says. “Seeing as you have five million of your own.”

Tris grins. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess so. I could show you around.” His voice wavers a little. “Even just tonight. It is pretty cold out here.”

There’s an affectation of bravado in that but Peter knows he’s nervous. Can feel it in the timbre of his voice. A good-looking young man, has probably never had to ask someone to go with him before in his life.

It would be easy, to say yes. Peter has nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Nowhere to stay tonight either. In the unsteady off-color midnight light and heavy shadow, Tris’s hair is dark and glossy. His face, good chin and clear dark eyes, is open and earnest, a little naive in a way that’s charming. A year ago, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. A year ago, Tris wouldn’t even have had to ask.

He could. He ought to, just to prove that he can. Another drink and it could happen without thought, fast and natural like shooting somebody in the head.

Means he wouldn’t wake up alone tomorrow.   

Clear eyes and nervous, open affectation. In Peter’s head, Juno sits with blood on his face and shoulders up around his ears, his vulnerability in his hands, his mouth, the frenetic jump of his voice. Those eyes -- almost turquoise in the right light, and like deep pools in the dark. He’d been the most honest when he wasn’t saying anything.

It isn’t Tris’s fault his invitation echoes something Peter had said to Juno once, standing outside a darkened building on very different city streets, red sand and neon rather than gold lamplight and glass storefronts. Isn’t his fault that, if Peter followed him home, poured himself another drink and let them both end up in bed together he’d be remembering different hands, a different voice saying a different name somewhere far away from here.

He’s a nice man. He doesn’t deserve that.

So Peter reaches out and puts his hand on Tris’s shoulder, and smiles as gently as he can. “I appreciate the invitation,” he says, and Tris’s face falls, “but I have to decline.”

“Oh,” he says, “I just thought -- “

“You didn’t think anything wrong,” Peter says quickly. “Maybe another time.”

“You have to go,” Tris says.

“I have to go,” Peter says, and he knows he sounds genuinely remorseful and tries to bring himself to actually feel that way. He does, just a little. “Places to see, things to steal. Stay out of trouble, alright?”

“I will if you will,” Tris says, and Peter squeezes his shoulder once before turning. He realizes as he’s down the block that Tris is still wearing his jacket, and briefly considers going back for it before deciding to leave the poor man his pride and a keepsake to remember him by.

It’s a pretty smooth move, right between romantic and cruel. The kind of thing Peter Nureyev would have done on purpose once for the fun of it, delighted in the idea that someone would think of him far across the distance of space.

 

 

Being on the other end of it ruins the appeal.

 

 

Maybe it’s justified, somehow. Recompense for all the times he’d showed up somewhere unwanted and left just as quickly, something he should accept. Some kind of cosmic balancing act.

Peter doesn’t believe the world works like that. Not really. If that’s true he has a lot more coming his way, because morality has less and less meaning every year and there’s the big one, underlined in red, that’s altered the weight of his being in a way that can never be undone.

There’s an old myth along those lines, something from Earth. What man’s soul can stay lighter than a feather, given the lives they’re stuck leading? Life has been easier on Peter since he stopped worrying about what was right and what was wrong, and he’s tried not to weigh things against each other since he did the most unforgivable thing one person can do, in the moral and theological sense. Patricide doesn’t just wash off. Give anyone an inch and they’ll take what they want without consideration. It must be a really heavy feather.

It’s cold; night wind winds through the city, biting. Peter pulls up the collar of his jacket tighter around his face.

If this was a story here would be the scene where he’s paying it back. The act itself, blood on a blade. The blind trust. Doomed to repeat the lesson and move on through the night alone with his collar pulled up high.

It’s not, though. It’s just how things go.

Peter shivers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Midnight drops, dark and chilly. A nameless man hurries through the city, destination unknown, and nobody watches him go.

 


End file.
